


What's in a Tattoo

by OverthinkingFeathers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Death and violence mentions, Gen, Suicidal Ideation, but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverthinkingFeathers/pseuds/OverthinkingFeathers
Summary: Zevran leaves the battle with the Grey Wardens alive and wondering why. Mahariel is practical and generally harsh, but she always has reasons for what she does. He wants to know why he was spared.





	What's in a Tattoo

They're not what Zevran was expecting. 

The plan isn't ruined, per se, but he was rather counting on them to be slightly less suspicious. Grey Wardens are heroes of legend, and people routinely called heroes are supposed to be giving and trusting. This lot clearly isn't. The elf - Dalish, if he's seeing correctly - and Qunari are just short of openly disdainful, trading eyerolls when they think no one can see. At least, he clearly sees the elf roll her eyes; the Qunari is on the far side and perhaps more mannerly than Zevran gives him credit for. 

Perhaps only the human is a Grey Warden then. He certainly seems eager to assist the woman Zevran's hired. His information is scare and outdated; it's entirely possible the others could be tagalongs. That would be more fitting. Champions sometimes amass a following, and outlaw heroes have their own appeal. And if the Grey Warden is this blindly trusting, well, he certainly needs them. 

That rather complicates things for him though. The two suspicious ones are scanning the horizon, shoulders tight, clearly expecting something. The massive dog - and Zevran's not sure if he's a Grey Warden or not, this being Ferelden - is scenting the air. They're not going to make it to the wagon. 

Well. He can improvise. He leaps up, shouts, "The Grey Warden dies here!" and charges the human. Around him, he can hear sudden clattering as the others spring out of hiding places, and he can taste the bitter dryness of a mage gathering mana. He hopes at least one of them will down the elf before she can intercept him. 

They don't. She steps in at the last minute, close enough that he can see her expression shift from anger to surprise. Then, before he can take advantage of that, she lashes out and hits him. The first blow is a lucky shot. She catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles back, winded. The second blow is skill. 

He doesn't remember falling, but he's definitely on the ground when he wakes, and there's a boot on his chest. It can't have been long; faraway sounds of battle still echo around him, with the occasional loud snap above his head. His vision swims, and he refocuses upwards. 

The elf is standing above him, unhurriedly tracking the fleeing mercenaries with her bow. She is grim and focused, and Zevran is reminded of an Antivan statue of Andraste that's many times taller than him. It is, despite the artist's best intentions, ominous and looming, towering over the city like an unvoiced threat. 

The boot on his chest is hers. It's an odd choice. The fight, judging by the lessening noise, is mostly over, and he has lost; there's no chance of him bringing them all down. Still, he could twist and unbalance her, maybe grab one of the daggers on her belt. She would probably still win, but he never expected to walk away from this anyway. 

She grinds her heel harder into his chest, as if sensing his thoughts, and he lays still instead. The mud feels like it's sucking him down, and he counts the seconds between her shots. He doesn't want to think about why he's still alive. 

When she finally releases him, he sits up slowly, more dazed than he thought. He sees no trace of uncertainty in her hazel eyes or in the steady hand that points a dagger towards him. The others are still some distance off, dumping out bags and recovering arrows. If they realize she’s left him alive, they don’t show it.   

"I have some questions," she says, and her tone is menacing, the threat of further violence clearly implied. She would be easy to antagonize, he thinks; there's no reason he has to keep going. She would kill him without a second thought. That is what he wanted. That's why he took this job in the first place. 

He opens his mouth to seal his fate and finds that he can't do it. He's walked away from a sharp knife a dozen times over, cursing his inability to end himself, and this is no different. It seems wrong to die calm and unafraid.   

So he flirts, barters with information, and in the end, lives.

_____________________________________________________________

 

Zevran makes it a month and a half before falling ill. It's a charming side effect of such a damp climate, he's sure; nothing life ending, but it will take a while to recover. 

He tries to hide it from Mahariel for as long as possible. She is not needlessly cruel, but her practicality can sometimes brush the edge of it. It's a trait tempered by the kinder members of the party, none of whom currently trust him. He doesn't think they'd just let her abandon him on the side of the road, but he's not sure enough to test it. The fights when he first came back with her were vicious. 

So he pushes himself harder than he should. Even walking leaves him exhausted and sore. By the third day, not even halfway to the Circle tower, he feels lightheaded and queasy. It is, all around, a truly miserable experience. He drops behind further than he means to, too wrapped up in a fever haze to notice his slowing pace. 

He only realizes when he runs straight into Mahariel. She's facing him, frowning with her arms crossed. The others are a good distance ahead. 

He opens his mouth to apologize, but she speaks first. "How long have you been sick?" 

He feels like it's been forever, but that can't be right. He tries to narrow it down, fails, and goes with a shrug instead. "A little while." 

She scowls and steps closer. A reflexive knot of fear rises in his stomach, and Zevran pushes it down. Mahariel is not a Crow, and he has never seen her do more than raise her voice at the others, but old habits die hard. 

If she notices, she doesn't show it, but the hand she presses against his forehead is gentle and cool. It's the first thing in hours that's felt good, and inappropriate as it is, he wishes she'd stay just like that for a while.   

She doesn't, and to his credit, Zevran doesn't protest when she moves. Out loud, anyway. She surveys their surroundings, searching the flat land dotted with the occasional tree. Finally, she shrugs. "This spot is as good as any other." Cupping her mouth with her hands to amplify the sound, she shouts, "We're making camp here! Come back!" In the distance, the others turn. 

Mahariel doesn't bother to check. She takes off her pack and tosses it on the ground, then turns to Zevran. "Give me yours." 

He struggles with the straps and succeeds only in getting it halfway off before she steps in and eases it off his back. She places it on the ground - a good deal more gently than her own, he notes with faraway amusement, like he has anything of value - and unhooks his bedroll. She spreads it out and points. 

"Rest." He must look blank, because she frowns and repeats, "Rest. I'm not asking." 

He wants to protest. Setting up camp is difficult and monotonous, and everyone is supposed to help. It's one of her rules. But he can hear his heartbeat in his head and feel every aching muscle, and he wants badly to sleep. If she's ordering him to take a break, it can't be a bad idea, he justifies. He lays down and almost immediately begins drifting off. 

"'Tis barely past midday," he hears, and Mahariel's response of, "I'm going to need you to make more health potions." 

Then he's gone. 

When he awakens, the spot has changed. It's night, and tents are clustered around a low fire. He feels surprisingly comfortable. Not well yet - he can feel the pain at the edge of his conscious, but for now, with the benefit of hours of sleep, he can ignore it. 

To his right, Mahariel is sitting at the fire, systematically grinding deathroot in a mortar. Her hair is loose and tangled, reddish undertones illuminated by the flames, and she's discarded most of her armor in favor of light clothing. It's a rare look for her, one normally reserved for the time between waking and leaving each day. He doesn't see anyone else, including her hound. She must be on watch then. 

He's aware that he should say something, perhaps thank her for stopping. He's been loyal and hardworking, and he deserves as much, but it's still not the reaction he expected. He doesn't understand her. She's reserved and combative, so confident in her skills that she routinely fights her way out of situations that never needed to be escalated in the first place. The others regard her as their leader, and it's a role she's embraced, often deciding in favor of harsh solutions the others object to but ultimately obey. She's made it clear that her only goal is stopping the Blight. Any good deeds she does along the way are simply for material benefit. Anyone who stands in her way is as good as dead. 

And yet, he's still alive and wrapped in rather more blankets than he started with. 

He goes with the same question he's asked every night since he first joined her, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn't expect an answer; she's never given him one. "Why did you spare me?" His voice is rougher and louder than he expects, but Mahariel doesn't startle. She merely puts down her work. 

Tonight, apparently, is going to be different. "Danyla," she says. She says it simply, like the name itself is a sufficient explanation. It means nothing to him. 

"I'm afraid you must have me confused for someone else," he says when it's become clear she's not going to continue. "My name is Zevran. Fiendishly handsome assassin, renowned lover, personal bodyguard? You remember this, I hope." 

She rolls her eyes. It's a favorite gesture of hers, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh and a muttered, "Creators, must I solve _everyone's_ problems?" This time, however, fondness is tugging the corners of her lips up slightly. It is a good look for her, he decides. 

"You don't ever let me forget. But I'd like you to tell me important things - like, you know, when you're sick - so I guess I can tell you this." The teasing smile dies away as suddenly as it appeared, and she's back to her usual self, serious and wary. For a minute, she stares into the fire like she's reliving something, and Zevran  wonders if the reason is more painful than he imagined. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. Then she shakes her head and says, "When we were in the Brecilian Forest, there was an elvhen woman named Danyla. She had been infected in the werewolf attack and transformed. The Keeper said she was dead, but really, she had run away. We found her in the forest. She could still speak, but she was in tremendous pain. She asked me to kill her. I did. I slashed her throat and continued on like it was nothing. 

"We found out later that there was a cure. She could have been fine. Instead, she's dead." Mahariel turns toward him, serious and intent. The fire behind her illuminates her silhouette, making her look like a painting of some sort of lost prophet. She is the kind the Chantry would try to erase, he thinks, strong and war like and unabashedly elven. "We lose so much every year, Zevran. I killed her, I killed an ancient elvhen spirit trapped in a crystal, I killed a second ancient elvhen spirit because it attacked me. I ransacked a temple filled with our history - history we don't even know, history we'll never get back - because it was filled with werewolves. I'm one of the People; I'm supposed to add to our clans, not take away from them." It’s more regret than he’s heard in her voice before. Up until now, he thought she simply wasn’t capable of it. 

She sits back, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "I promised I'd never kill another Dalish elf if I could help it." 

There is a lot he could say in response to that. She knows about his mother, knows that he isn't Dalish himself. She had asked about his clan there on the field, when he was at her mercy, and he hadn't lied. She could have killed him and not broken her vow.  Instead, she had taken him back to camp, patched up his wounds, and given him protection. Half of his gear is now Dalish made, all gifts from her. 

He doesn't know what to say. She misinterprets his silence and says, a bit defensively, "You came from behind us. I only got a glimpse of your tattoo."   

He can work with that. "Your tattoos are in honor of your gods, no? Is there a god of ridiculously talented elves? I could see why you would think I'd bear his mark." 

She snorts. "The only half face vallaslin I've seen is for Sylaise. One of our sister clans uses it. Or they did at the last Arlathven, anyway." 

"Is she the goddess of ridiculously talented elves then?" 

"She's the Hearthkeeper. She gave us medicine, weaving, and fire." Mahariel sketches a pattern in the dirt. "It's been years, but I think it looked like this. Yours would need a lot of work to match." 

He's too far away to make out the finer points of the design and too comfortable to move, but he can tell it is far more complicated than his tattoo. "I'm not sure a wise woman quite matches me. Besides, I am not Dalish." 

"I know that." Her face is still turned towards the ground, hair obscuring her expression. He cannot tell if her tone is defensive or sad. Perhaps it is both.   

"Which god do your tattoos represent?" They cover most of her face, lines half sharp and half rounded as if the artist could not quite decide what suited her. The ink is lighter than his own, with a reddish brown undertone, but it's not yet faded from age. He cannot picture her without them. He can almost picture her getting them, expression serious and stubborn, shoulders unflinching. 

She glances up at him. Suddenly, he wants to ask if the experience prepared her for this, if having to remain unmoved while needles jabbed under her skin was anything like having to fight monsters day in and day out. He waits instead. 

"Ask me some other time," she finally says. "You’ll need a new question now that I've answered the last one." 

It is, somehow, the nicest thing she’s ever said to him.


End file.
